


Buy Me a Drink, Sailor?

by furloughday



Category: Uncharted
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-23
Updated: 2013-12-23
Packaged: 2018-01-05 16:25:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1096081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/furloughday/pseuds/furloughday
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry Flynn is alive and well and doesn't need any goddamn charity. Drake and the others, however, have a proposition.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Buy Me a Drink, Sailor?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ancalime](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ancalime/gifts).



On a night like any other, Harry Flynn finds himself not drunk in a bar in Dubrovnik.

After only a brief scuffle with the doorman earlier - "Ain't got a gun on you, now would you?" "For shame, my good man. Never touched a firearm in my life." - he's successfully attained a cold beer, which he's nursing slowly now at the scratched table in the corner farthest from the door.

It's the dead of winter, six inches of snow outside, three since Flynn's been here, slowly creeping up the window by the hour. His boots are still wet, but it's cheery enough inside the pub, a crackling fire in the hearth and a low murmur of conversation in the air. The bartender's adequately suspicious for this rag tag clientel, with his money in a lock box behind the bar and Flynn notices how he's been squinting an eye across the room whenever the gang of men betting at dice in the largest table roar at a good roll. Over by the restrooms, a sailor stands swaying with drink while his friend sings a low sea shanty. There's a record of holiday songs playing, and on the fifth repeat, Flynn's fingers twitch toward his holster, and he just stops himself from pulling his Desert-5 out and shooting out the speakers.

As he's thinking dark thoughts about the music, a voice shouts, "Why, if it isn't Harry goddamn Flynn!"

Flynn cringes and fights the urge to hunch over in his chair, embarrassingly caught off-guard. He sneaks a look and sees it's Nate Drake, wearing the same outfit as he was in Shambhala eleven months ago and a stupid grin to match. Good grief.

Drake, for his part, looks alarmingly pleased, like the last time they'd had words Flynn hadn't been pulling the pin on a grenade to blow them all to hell.

When he reaches the corner table, Drake stops just short of clapping Flynn on the shoulder, Flynn can read the effort in his stance, his swinging arms. Instead, Drake scratches the back of his head and turns to take in the decor. "Black market whiskey, blood on the bar rags. Up to your old haunts, I see. And alive—"

Flynn grits his teeth. "Not dead," he corrects. "Only—"

"Hiding?"

"—taking in the local color." He lounges against his chair back and gives Drake the eyebrow. For a long minute.

Drake, never one to just take a seat, has to be offered it, a real gentleman, crosses his arms over his chest and remains standing, swaying slightly on his feet.

"Well?" he finally asks, looking down at Flynn. "Nothing to say for yourself?"

"Not to the likes of you."

Drake nods but stays where he is. Any dumb lug could read the ill-intent in Flynn's tone. Except for Drake. Drake appears, as usual, unperturbed by the Leave Me Alone vibes Flynn is communicating at him and suddenly looks around again, and mutters, "Hey! Wait a sec. Haven't we been here before?" He frowns happily in thought, then snaps when he's got it. "Yeah! Right! You really liked this place! It was five years ago, right after the South America job we pulled—"

"Let's," Flynn says, cutting him off before he goes all hangdog face. "Not talk about the South America job."

"—we'd spent two years on the move. Man, that trip was great."

"Yeah, a regular honeymoon. Can we just—"

"—hammocks, pineapples, the whole caboodle. It was like a final hurrah before—" Flynn can see the moment Nate remembers, the moment Nate's face falls. "Well, the final hurrah before we split, I guess. Didn't see you till that beach. Never did understand why you left—"

Flynn cuts him off. Dealing with Nate's nostalgia is a tiresome process. "Any reason you decided to converge upon my place of sanctuary? I'm kind of busy, mate."

"In freaking bar? By yourself?"

Flynn sneers and raises his glass in the mockery of a toast. "You only live once. Drink while you can."

"It's not just some night, Flynn. It's Christmas Eve."

"Well you're here too," Flynn says, and downs the drink and stands. If he’s being honest with himself, he'd come to this familiar bar seeking solace and he's going to leave with what's left of it, or so help him. "Tonight's a fine time to celebrate as any. Anyhow, now that you know I wasn't blown to smithereens, and now that we've established you're still a complete buffoon, I'll leave you to bother some other drunk."

“No, wait—”

"Easy, partner," another voice says from behind Drake. "You want to start a scene?"

Flynn throws his hands up. He knows that voice. Where Drake goes, Sullivan is sure to follow. "Can't a man have a sodding drink to himself in this town?"

Sullivan has a cigar hanging out of the corner of his mouth and it bobs when he says, "Now, now, is that a way to greet old— Well, could one call us colleagues?"

"Absolutely not,” says Flynn. “But you're right about the 'old' part. You look more like a walrus every time I see you. And I’ve seen one up-close before."

"That two-ton monster?" Drake crows as Flynn and the old man stare one another down. "Remember how it whapped you in the face with its flipper?"

They both ignore him.

Sullivan squares his shoulders and growls out through an unruly slap of hair on his upper lip, "Now see here, Flynn."

“Shove it, Sullivan.” Flynn leans in to tell Drake, "It's bad enough you come in here. If you want something from me, this is not the way to get it."

“I told you he wouldn’t get off his lazy ass and—”

Drake looks over his shoulder and says, in a pointed tone. "Sully."

"All right, all right. I'll get the drinks. Lord knows we’ll need ‘em."

As the old man heads to the bar, muttering to himself, Drake shoots Flynn a guilty look that means he's sorry he's introduced the two again. Flynn thinks he might leave. It would be better if he did.

"Look," Drake says, then cuts himself off. "Can we sit?"

Flynn gives up then and waves to the table and chairs. If Drake wants to sit, he’ll let him sit. What can be gained from further conversation is a mystery to him, but there's only so much one can do against the will of Nathan Drake, the most stubborn man Flynn has ever met.

"Look," Drake says again, folding his hands on the sticky tabletop and leaning in. The best part about it is that he probably thinks he’s actually articulate and persuasive, but the reason he gets his way half the time is how stupid and endearing this earnest act is. "I don't _want_ something from you, per se. I just—"

"You just _want something from me_. And no you don’t. Haven't you realized yet that I'm only going to double-cross you? Look at what happened the last time we _worked_ together.”

Drake frowns at the air quotes. There doesn’t seem to be much left to say. Snow is piling up the window and spiced cider is being poured out at the bar like sunshine in this dark world.

They both turn their heads at a particularly loud crack of the fire, and Flynn crosses his arms over his chest and leans back in his chair, wondering how many seconds Drake can sit here in wretched silence remembering past wrongs. Flynn's sold Drake out more times than he cares to remember, and come time, he would do it again in a second.

"Malaysia," Nate says suddenly.

"What?"

"Malaysia." Nate waves a hand. "Remember? The—"

Flynn nods, and finishes for him, "—six fingered American ex-pat with the parrot and the large weapons store, yes, I remember."

"Yeah, him. Remember after that con? We talked about how one day we'd come back to Malaysia? And it wouldn't be for treasure, we said, and it wouldn't be under the threat of death."

"Oh right," says Flynn. It seems he does remember saying something of the sort. "But we were fools then. I know now that the only reason to go anywhere is if you make bank doing it."

Flynn grins. "Exactly. I've got a job for you. It ain't no vacation."

"In Malaysia," Flynn repeats.

"Yeah, some Australians looted the wreckage of an old Malaysian war ship and have the stockpileon their military base."

"A military base. You're going to try to get cargo off a military base?"

"Well, yeah," says Drake, blinking like a fool and missing Flynn’s point entirely. "I mean, that's where the wreckage was carried off to."

"I'm sorry, but any proposal to sneak into the military base is a terrible idea. It can and will most likely be a swift road to certain and protracted death, you do realize that, don't you?"

"You and I both know from experience that we can get out alive," Drake tells him. "Thing is, Drake's journal described the exact location the ships sunk. I say we go in and relieve what is rightfully ours."

"Your insistence that everything mentioned by Sir Francis Drake belongs to you is as foolish as it is arrogant."

"Just like old times, then?" There's a spark of something in his voice, something compelling. If it weren't for the myriad good reasons to walk out of this bar right now, Flynn might almost be tempted to say yes.

There's a tinkling of yule bells then, and Flynn turns as the door swings open. A flurry of snow sweeps in the door to dust the foyer when two women shoulder in past the bouncer. Flynn notices they aren't checked over for weapons, even though he knows for a fact that that Chloe bird keeps three small pistols strapped to her ankles and thigh. Elena favors point-and-shoot cameras and high-powered rifles both.

"I'm not dressed for a blizzard," he hears Chloe say. "Nate, how long's it going to bleedin’ take."

Flynn makes to stand. "This is getting ridiculous. I'd like to say it was good to see your faces, but I won't do you the disservice of lying to you. I'm not some dog to feed scraps."

Chloe stops him with a hand on his shoulder and shoves him down into his chair. "It's a boatful of rubies the size of your fist," she tells him, leaning in. "What the hell more do you want, mate?"

"Oh." Flynn paused for a moment to imagine it. "Well why didn't you mention that in the first place?"

"Right. That was easy. What was Nate's schtick?"

"The usual feelings mumbo jumbo."

Chloe shakes her head. "I swear, how is he that soft after this life?" 

Drake says, "Hey, I'm sitting right here. At least wait until I’m out of the room to slander me.”

"So?" Elena says, dropping into the chair to Drake's left.

"Fine." Flynn says, shooting her a glare. "But I better get my bloody treasure this time."

She smiles sweetly. "I’m just in it for the story. Those rubies are an international scandal."

Drake pulls out his journal. "There's a charter leaving at ten."

Flynn raises his eyebrows. "In the morning?"

"Uh," Nate pats his vest and then shrugs when he finds nothing. "Sully?"

The old man consults his watch. "An hour and a half, give or take ten minutes for travel time."

"Fine."

 

 

The next ten minutes are a blur of conversation and planning. Flynn’s not quite sure how he got here, surrounded by people leaning in, talking intently. He’s been working alone for near on a year now, small, odd jobs, a thief for hire. He had forgotten the simple comfort that came from companionship.

They discuss the heist like it’s good, honest work. Sully knows some back story about the people who have the jewels, and Flynn thinks maybe, now that they mention it, he knows a guy who knows a guy who might be able to be of use to them. Drake questions their escape route, and Elena rolls her eyes and tells him they’ll figure it out later.

That settled, they all get another round. Elena talks cameras with Sully, who tells her she can get her a fine one on the black market while Drake argues that it wasn’t him who broke her last one.

While they're all preoccupied, Chloe leans in toward Flynn to say, “No hard feelings, all right?”

Flynn shakes his head. “That’s what doesn’t add up. I sold you out as much as I sold out him. Maybe more. Only a fool would trust me now.”

"Well, I said we should let you rot," Chloe says. "And I told him we could find a better criminal to team up with, but..." They both look to Drake.

“To the team!" Elena says, leaning across the table and clinking her beer against Chloe's.

"Hear, hear!"

Sully lights a celebratory cigar and Drake sits back and smiles.

The cigar is the straw that tips it, because the barman comes over to throw them out.

"No smoking in this establishment," he growls, and cocks his sawed off when Chloe gives him sass.

Flynn rolls his eyes and throws down a wad of dirty bills. "We were leaving anyway," he says, and heads for the door.

The chill outside is bracing, but the cheer from inside and the angry insults his group’s hurling back into the bar as they leave is enough to warm the cockles of Flynn's black heart. Nothing has changed, really. Chloe still likes to cause scenes for the hell of it, Elena egging her on. Sully tends to snicker and then surprise punch people in the face and Drake just likes fun in general. Flynn is already regretting his decision. He can’t go anywhere with these people.

The barman slams the door. 

“Rude,” says Elena, but sounds pleased.

Chloe adjusts her tank top. “One could say it's time to hit the road. Come on, we’re gonna be late.”

They jog off through the abandoned streets, snow kicking up under their quiet footfalls, the sound of water getting nearer. And when they reach the lower town, they veer abruptly East, through a gate that says something in bold lettering to the effect of ‘Keep out or you’re dead.’

They silently make their way over the fence and along the side of a warehouse. Past this, they find a short airstrip lit by bright stadium lighting with armed guards. Three small planes sit innocuously waiting to be taken.

"Oh, good," says Flynn. "Transportation." He was ready to kick back and watch an in-flight movie just about now.

"The sarcasm," Drake says. "So glad to have you along. Knew you'd pull through."

"Pull through?" Flynn asks, ducking behind a jeep. "This is a favor, darling. You'll owe me for life the way you keep calling them in."

Drakes eyes flash in the darkness. "Yeah, yeah. Save it, we've got a plane to hijack."

Flynn grabs his arm before Drake can take one more step. "Woah woah woah. You never said anything about a hijack."

Drake’s brow furrows in confusion. "You don't think we had tickets for this gig, did you?"

"You're a crazy bastard," Flynn swears.

"Takes one to know one," Drake says and takes off at a run. He scales three crate boxes and a pile of oil barrels, and crouches atop them with a hand on his gun. He sends Flynn a wink before jumping off the tall wall and out of sight, shouting, "Geronimo!"

The rest of the team, and Flynn, follow.

 

 

A week and a half later, after they’ve gotten in, out, hijacked another plane and escaped, they gather around in a beach bungalow hideout with drinks. The rubies are in coffee sacks, spilling out onto the floor.

Elena films the pile. “Wow, there’s, uh, a lot of them."

"That's what happens when you find the treasure," Sully muses. "Doesn't happen often."

"How we going to get all that through customs?" Chloe says, and they all laugh in that good-natured way of those above or below the law.

Drake comes to sit next to Flynn against the wall, throws an arm over Flynn's shoulders. “So, there’s this sunken treasure—” he starts.

"No way in hell," Flynn growls, and when Drake busts up laughing, says, “Goddamn it, Drake.”

Flynn kicks at a ruby. It's even bigger than his fist, and well worth it. When he looks up, everyone is his their way. He should have stayed dead, he thinks, because now? Now he’s in. They've got him, hook, line, and sinker.

"Oh get stuffed," he tells them, and sighs and crosses his arms across his chest.

“Happy New Year's, Flynn.”


End file.
